


Echoy'la

by PajamaSecrets



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Dry Humping, F/M, First Time, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Mandalorian Culture, Masturbation, Parenthood, Rutting, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22433023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/pseuds/PajamaSecrets
Summary: echoy'la: searching, mourning, lost.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 30
Kudos: 322





	Echoy'la

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here’s my first foray into Mando fic! Hope you enjoy. Smut ahoy. One of his sexual partners is left intentionally nameless so you can project yourself onto the story (and Mando’s dick) if you so wish.

_**present.** _

Djarin sighed as he took off his durasteel armor piece by piece, feeling lighter with the absence of each metal plate, until he finally removed his most prized and precious piece—his helmet, the only one of the set made of pure beskar. He relished the feeling of the cool air on his face as he brought up a hand to brush his fingers through his unkempt hair. Many Mandalorians kept their hair shortly cropped, to keep their helmets from overheating. He selfishly kept his longer. It reminded him of his father’s hair, dark chestnut locks that his mother loved to muss in gestures of quiet affection. His memories of them were few and fading as the years went by—he cherished the ones he had left.

He gave himself a cursory glance in the mirror of the refresher in the _Razor Crest_. The bruise on his temple—a gift from a rather feisty quarry earlier that week—was healing well. He turned to look at the cut on his arm—between where his pauldron and vambrance would’ve protected it (just his luck). It wasn’t worth wasting his small supply of bacta spray on, so he let it be. He reached up to scratch his chin. His stubble was growing, but not long enough to shave yet. Mandalorians, along with keeping their hair short, were often clean-shaven—a beard became a sweaty hindrance under layers of metal and cloth. He remembered the advice of Rohzek, a young man who had sworn the Creed a few years before he did. _Don’t forget to shave, Djarin. Otherwise your helm’ll stink like wet Bantha._

It’d been a long time since he got that friendly tip on the eve of his _Verd’goten_. When a Mandalorian turned thirteen, the ceremony began, and adherence to the Creed was sworn. You put on your helm and never took it off in front of another living thing.

Djarin came of age before his body did—some of his fellow foundlings would tease and ask if he was really a girl under there. The more he would try to lower his squeaky voice, the more they would laugh. As time passed and he became taller, his voice lower, and hair growing abundantly in places his foster mother really should have warned him about, the teasing stopped. Partially because they were all older and a little more mature, and partially because his newfound musculature made him a formidable sparring partner.

_**twenty-three years ago.** _

“I win,” Ihyala gloated, holding Djarin down. She sat atop him, her hands gripping his splayed-out wrists. The blue paint on her helmet was beginning to chip on the left side, the pure durasteel beneath glinting in the harsh lights of the training room. She was a sight to behold in just one layer of fabric—no armor in the way of her soft curves—and the shape of her was distracting.

But not _too_ distracting—the second she relaxed her hold the slightest inch, Djarin swiftly flipped them over, hips pinning her to the rubber sparring mat, _her_ wrists in his grasp. She squirmed underneath him to no avail.

“Now who’s the winner?” he panted. While Ihyala was much quicker and nimbler, he was undeniably stronger and taller, biology being in his favor in that regard.

“Din,” Ihyala said, her usually loud, brash voice suddenly very quiet and timid.

Djarin had been so caught up in the adrenaline rush of the fight that he hadn’t noticed he was getting hard, and it was pressing directly against her thigh. (So much for biology being in his favor.) He also had only one layer of clothes, no armor, and _certainly_ not a cup—his sparring instructor would have a fit at that last bit.

Just as he was about to scramble off of her, he felt Ihyala give the tiniest hitch of her hips.

_Oh_.

Under his helmet, he gritted his teeth, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But then she lifted her hips up again, more confident this time, and a moan tumbled from his throat, unbidden.

Djarin pressed down, then, hips grinding in a slow, deliberate roll. Ihyala gasped and met him in equal measure. Leaning forward, his helmet gently rested against hers, the room filled with the heavy sound of their intermingled breathing.

The smooth roll of their hips quickly turned into desperate rutting. Sparks of pleasure shot through Djarin’s cock, balls drawn up so tight they ached.

One of his hands moved from her wrist to lace his fingers with hers. “I’m gonna—” he panted.

“Do it,” she said.

Burying his helmet in the crook of her shoulder, he came with a shout, trembling with the force of it. A few more quick thrusts against her was all he could manage before he stilled, sagging on top of her.

But not for long. He propped himself up one elbow and snaked his hand down into the waistband of her pants. “What do you need?”

Ihyala drew in a sharp breath. “Can you—just rub, right there—”

His obeyed, hands slipping into her underclothes and rubbing the swollen, sensitive flesh there. She cried out, bucking up against him, and he knew that if he could see her face, it would be a picture of pure ecstasy.

_**present.** _

Djarin was aware that his clan’s interpretation of The Way was more strict than most. Many traditional clans would take off their helms amongst immediate family members. Other clans would take off their helms amongst other Mandalorians, family or not, and helmets were only used in public. In Djarin’s clan, you were permitted to take off your helmet in front of another living thing in only two situations. The first was in the light, on your marriage day, when you swore the vow in the presence of your partner and no one else. Mandalorian weddings had no officiant: your vow was to your spouse, and to your spouse only. You were permitted to see their face as a testament to your union—you were not showing your face to another, because in that moment, you became one being.

_**Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.** _

_W_ _e are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors._

The second helmet-removing situation was in conjunction with that last part of the wedding vow—reproduction. You were permitted to remove your helmet during sexual relations (and if you were biologically compatible, said relations were expected to result in children), but only in darkness. At least that’s what the priestess told his age group when they were given the “reproduction lecture.” Devin, the armorer’s apprentice, cracked wise with the group after. _Only the ones as old as the priestess fuck in the dark,’cause they ain’t much to look at._ The group erupted into giggles, and his wife, whilst holding their young infant in one arm, elbowed him in the side.

As a Mandalorian, your children, both biological and foundling, were of utmost importance. This was the Way. You loved them, you raised them, you trained them as warriors. Abandoning a child meant you disgraced the Creed and could never return—and having sex outside of marriage could result in a child that no one was prepared to care for. Some Mandalorian warrior-scholars posit this as the reason for the more orthodox sects’ strict helmet rules: the theory was, you wouldn’t want to have sex unless you could take your helmet off, and therefore, not have sex until you were married, and thus only have children as a stable family unit.

However, technology advanced at a faster pace than religious doctrine, and in most developed planets, the combined contraceptive implant was readily available—and often required for employment in some places (namely, Imperial bases and seedy cantinas). Even before then, the herbal concoctions of the Ho’Din were famed for their effectiveness—if you drank it before you fucked, you were in the clear.

With the consequences of recreational sex a thing of the past, young Mandalorians in Djarin’s clan took this as a loophole to their situation: as long as the helmet stayed on, you could fuck like a loth-cat in heat.

Of course, if you were getting busy with a fellow Mandalorian, this meant no kissing and no oral sex. Some of the unmarried Mandalorian men of his clan would go to brothels for this purpose only: at least then they could get their dicks sucked.

Djarin did wonder sometimes what it would be like to kiss heated lips, to bite into soft flesh. To bury himself between a woman’s thighs and eat her out until she screamed. He resigned himself to never knowing. At this point in his life—forty years in this bitch of a galaxy—he wasn’t going to get married. His career as a bounty hunter certainly wasn’t attractive to another Mandalorian. It was important to raise warriors—and being away chasing quarries for weeks would not be giving children the attention they deserve.

He was a Mandalorian, and every Mandalorian in the covert helped support the clan’s youth—the foundlings especially. But he would never have a wife. He would never hold a child in his arms and call it his own. That was his lot in life, and he’d come to accept it.

But that didn’t mean he was a blushing virgin. Far from it—humans were known for being a hormonal species, especially the men, and there was only so much masturbation that one could bear. After his first fumblings with the sparring partner of his youth, Djarin decided sex was too good to pass up. He was a regular in brothels in the cities he frequented—and because of his top-tier guild rates, he was able to afford the best. A lot of ladies of the night wouldn’t kiss a client anyway, and hardly any of them expected oral sex (the first time he hired a prostitute, a trembling twenty-year-old Djarin had apologized for this. She rolled her eyes at him and explained that most men just wanted a warm place to stick their cock.) With years of practice, he had become very, _very_ adept with his hands, and he always made sure the lady had a good time. There was nothing quite like having a woman shake apart beneath you. _Because_ of you.

Of course, some were wary about the helmet, especially the women he picked up in cantinas. The professionals he hired never asked him about it, and for that he was thankful.

The last city he stayed the night in didn’t have a respectable brothel (Djarin never went to the ones run by slavers—when his quarry was a trafficker, he made sure to bring them in cold), so he visited a cantina instead. The Pantoran woman he left the bar with was skeptical.

“ _Your cock may be the greatest gift to the galaxy,” she said coyly as she undressed, revealing swathes of glistening blue skin,“but if that helmet has never come off, do you really know how to please a woman?”_

He made her come three times that night before he even fucked her, just to prove a point.

Djarin started the shower in the cramped fresher and let the hot water run down his aching body. As he washed off the sweat and grime, he felt a familiar heat in his belly. He huffed out an annoyed laugh. All this musing about sex was getting to his head—and his cock. With a sigh, he ran a hand down his stomach, through the dark hair below his navel, and finally, blissfully took himself in hand.

_**ten years ago.** _

“Can I help you with that?” She asked.

“No need,” Djarin replied, deftly removing his armor one piece at a time, letting the battered durasteel drop to the floor of her room. It was faster to do it himself.

After Djarin had removed all his armor (save for the helmet), his boots, and his cape, he sat down on the bed beside her in his worn-out shirt and trousers. This set didn’t have any visible bloodstains, but it had been shredded up and stitched back together within an inch of its life. He figured it didn’t matter—it was going to be on the floor in short order.

“So, um, should we start with kissing?” She asked, voice unsure.

“Sorry, the helmet stays on,” Djarin said.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

Djarin began the way he always did: taking off one glove, then another, and setting them aside. He brushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ear, her face and neck reddening. He brought his thumb to her mouth and gently touched her lower lip; usually, this was the cue to kiss or lick it—the more adventurous ones just sucked it into their mouths. In his experience, it usually helped appease the whole no-kissing caveat. She, however, stayed utterly still, her trembling breath hot against his hand.

Perhaps that wasn’t the right way to start for her. He let his hand trace the line of her neck, then her collarbone. Sliding his hand under her tunic, he pushed it off her shoulder, revealing the edge of a white bra. She sat there, breathing ragged, her hands stock-still in her lap.

This was normally when one would start getting undressed. This woman, however, seemed utterly at a loss. Maybe she didn’t do one-night stands very often. Maybe she was put off by the helmet. Or maybe—

“You’ve never done this before, have you.”

She looked away. He took her silence as confirmation.

Djarin stood up. “I should go.”

“No, don’t—” she grabbed him by the arm. “Let me explain.”

After a pause, Djarin sat back down on the bed.

“I... I don’t usually tell people this. I’m in the Rebel Alliance. I know what the Empire did to your people, so maybe, um, maybe you get it. The whole rebellion thing.”

He nodded.

“I just finished my training, and... it looks like I’m going to be deployed tomorrow. I just. I don’t want to have any regrets,” she said. “I want to know what it’s like.”

Beneath his helmet, Djarin raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“You were kind to me. You bought me a drink. And... your voice. Your voice is...” She cleared her throat. “Really nice.”

“Is that so?” He said.

She nodded.

His voice. Well, he wasn’t very talkative, and his helmet did add static, but clearly it had made an impression.

“I know you can’t kiss me, but,” she started, “Can I?...” She touched his neck where it peeked out of his shirt.

“Go ahead,” he said.

At first, it was just a small, chaste kiss against the side of his neck. He hummed appreciatively and tilted his head to give her better access. Her kiss turned open-mouthed and wet, her hands gripping his shirt a little too tightly—nerves, he guessed—and then she dug in her teeth and _sucked_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he moaned, his voice breaking.

She pulled away. “I’m not _totally_ inept,” she said, cracking a smile.

Djarin cleared his throat and subtly adjusted himself in his pants. “Clearly.”

However, this seemed to be where her expertise ended, because she paused, looking at the bed with a nervous expression.

“Lie down,” he said gently.

She did, and he slowly took off her clothes—tunic first, unfastening the ties, sliding the sleeves off her arms, stroking every inch of skin as it was revealed. Next, he tugged at the waistband of her pants, hooking his thumbs underneath them as she lifted her hips to help him slide them off.

She surprised him by taking off her bra herself. “Faster this way,” she said.

Djarin didn’t protest, even though he was rather deft at bra-removal—in fact, he prided himself on doing it one-handed.

He was taken away from his thoughts by the sight of her breasts, soft, pert, the perfect amount to fit in his hands. So he did—cupped them both gently, rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She let out a surprised squeak.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “ _more_.”

He pinched one nipple, harder this time, feeling it tighten under his fingers. She let out an absolutely filthy noise, then clasped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

“Don’t hold back,” Djarin reassured, his right hand leaving her breast to move down, down to where her underwear clung to her, the material already soaked through. He rubbed slow circles, reveling in the keening noises she made.

He pushed the gusset aside and traced a thumb along her slit, the hot slickness heavenly against his skin. Slowly, carefully, he pushed a finger inside.

“ _Ah!_ ”

Her legs clamped together, knees trapping his arm in place. Despite her wetness, it was a tight fit. Very tight. _Fuck._

“Try to relax,” he said, moving her knees apart with his left hand. His thumb worked gentle, sure pressure on her clit, slow and steady. Her hips bucked up, seeking more sensation.

“S’good,” she rasped, hips squirming. “Really good.”

“Another?” Djarin asked.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah.”

He carefully eased in a second finger. She cried out, squeezing down on him like a vise.

“Just fuck me. Please.” Her hands clawed at the bedsheets. “I don’t care if it hurts.”

“Be patient,” he said, slowly taking his fingers out. He moved his hands to grip at the waistband of her underwear. “Are these expensive?”

“Do they _look_ expensive?” She rolled her eyes at him.

“Just checking,” he said before bunching the fabric in his fists and ripping it clean off.

She stared at him with mouth agape for a moment before letting out a laugh. “I mean, they’re not expensive, but damn,” she said. “Do I get to rip yours off, too?”

“Not wearing any,” Djarin replied, matter-of-fact. Shifting on the bed, he rummaged in his pants pocket until he found the tube of lubricant he stashed there earlier.

She smirked at the sight of it. “You came to that cantina with an agenda, huh?”

“It’s not just for sex,” he said, “there are practical uses.”

“Like polishing your armor?” She asked with a giggle.

“Yes, actually—” he started before realizing her joke. He sighed. “Well, that too.”

She really laughed, then, a full-on belly laugh. It was a lovely sound. He took the time to coat his fingers generously and slide them back inside her.

“Oh, hell,” she gasped, “that’s better.”

“Good,” he said, pouring more of the lubricant over her, letting it drip down her slit. He dragged his thumb through the liquid, gathering some on the pad of it before rubbing at her clit again. Her hips jerked clean off the bed.

“ _Fuck_!” she practically screamed. From the privacy of his helmet, he allowed himself a smug smile.

Then, he picked up the pace. Before long, her legs began to tremble.

“I—I think I’m going to—” she warned.

Djarin pressed his thumb firmly against her swollen clit, moving it in small, tight circles. She cried out as she came, the walls of her cunt fluttering around his fingers, thighs shaking as they squeezed his arm so hard he thought he might lose circulation. He kept his fingers moving, working her through her orgasm, stopping only when she reached out to still his hand. His fingers stayed inside her, feeling her squeeze him with each aftershock.

“Well,” she said, nearly breathless, “Apparently Mandalorian talents aren’t limited to the battlefield.”

“This is the Way,” he said, voice laden with innuendo.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she said, motioning in his general direction with a still-trembling hand.

Without a word, Djarin slipped his fingers out of her to undo the fastens on his shirt. He let it fall from his shoulders and discarded it on the floor.

She sat up, running a finger along an old scar on his chest. She looked at him with a questioning eye.

“Vibroblade,” he said.

Her hand moved down his flank to a circular, mottled scar.

“Blaster,” he said.

And so she mapped his scars, and he gave a brief explanation of how he came to bear each one, until a curious finger tugged at the waistband of his pants.

Djarin opened his fly and let her tug down the waistband until his cock sprang free from its confines, smearing precum as it brushed wetly against his lower stomach. Nestled amongst a dark thatch of hair, his balls hung heavy and full.

She reached out again and he clenched his muscles in anticipation, only for her to run her hand along the long scar on his thigh, arguably his most gruesome.

“Knife,” he said. “Dirty. Deep.”

She lightly pressed into it. He hissed through his teeth. The pain buzzed through his body and his dick twitched at the sharp burn of it, a bead of precum dripping from his slit.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” he replied.

Hesitantly, she moved her hand from his thigh to lightly stoke his shaft. He groaned at the contact.

“How is that going to fit inside me?” She whispered, as if to herself.

From what Djarin was able to surmise, he was of average length for a human male of his stature, but the girth—well, that was another story.

“I’ll go slow,” he said.

“Do you, uh,” she started, looking at the skin of his bare shoulders with scrutiny, “do you have the implant?”

He took her hand in his and led it to his backside, had her feel the little bump where it sat.

“You got the implant in _your ass_?”

She seemed to find this _very_ amusing. He rolled his eyes in the safety of his helmet.

“Doesn’t rub against armor that way,” he said. “Lie back.”

She did as he said. He shimmied out of his pants the rest of the way, flung them to be forgotten with the rest of their clothes in a heap on the floor. Reaching behind her, he grabbed a pillow and motioned for her to lift her hips. She gave him a curious eye.

“Better this way,” he said. He found the angle helped accommodate his size.

With the pillow beneath her hips, he knelt over her, one arm braced beside her head. He took himself in hand with the other, let the head of his cock rub where she was still all pink and swollen. She jolted, letting out a strangled cry.

“Spread your legs more,” he said, voice soft, encouraging. She did so, knees spreading wide, any previous trepidation now gone. He let his cockhead glide down her slit, teasing.

“ _Please_ ,” she all but whispered.

Slowly, he pushed into her wet heat. _Fuck_ , she was tight. Despite all the slickness and stretching her with his fingers, his thick cock couldn’t get all the way inside. She winced and grabbed at his shoulders, nails digging in.

“Sorry,” he said. Balancing himself on his elbow, he brought his thumb back to rub at where they were joined. He stroked along where her lips were swallowing him up, gathering slick before working circles on her clit again. She relaxed, ever so slightly, and with a push of his hips, he was fully seated inside her. He moaned, low and loud.

“Okay?” He gasped, using all of his willpower not to move.

“Yeah,” she hissed, “It just. Just burns.”

He stayed motionless for as long as he could to let her adjust. When her breathing evened out and her furrowed brow softened, he rocked forward, gentle. An obscene moan burst from her.

“Do that again,” she said.

He did—rocked into her, more firmly this time.

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathed.

“I’m going to move now,” Djarin said, voice strained. She nodded at him to continue.

He started his thrusts slow and shallow, working up an even pace. The sounds of their lovemaking seemed to embarrass her—at one particularly wet noise of skin against skin, she squeaked and brought a hand up to cover her face.

Djarin chuckled. He took her hand from her face and held it in his. “Want to see you,” he said.

She smiled. “Wish I could see _you_ ,” she said, breathy and quiet.

“Believe me,” he said, panting, “I’m enjoying this.” His next thrust was particularly deep.

Her hand squeezed his. “ _Aah_!”

He couldn’t help himself; he tried his best to go slow until now, but it was too much, too hot, too _good_. His thrusts became harder, deeper. Her cries became louder, higher-pitched, shameless. He grabbed at the crook of her knee and pushed it back a little, drawing himself up on his knees, pounding into her with abandon. Her body began to tense; a dam about to burst.

His motions became disjointed, erratic. “Come with me,” he all but begged, and when he pushed his thumb against her clit, she tumbled over the edge, shaking apart beneath him. He managed three more deep thrusts into her before he came inside her with a shout.

He slumped on top of her, heart pounding a rapid rhythm in his chest as he tried to catch his breath. He felt drops of sweat roll down his forehead, his helmet resting in the slope of her neck and shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking his hand in hers.

–

The next morning, Djarin woke at dawn. He didn’t usually allow himself the luxury of sleeping in a warm bed with a companion. They were all but a tangle of limbs, her quiet, deep breathing a soothing sound.

He extracted himself from the bed, careful not to wake her. After suiting up in his armor, he ducked out to the nearby bazaar, vendors just beginning to open their stands.

When he returned to her humble little room, she was still fast asleep. He smiled softly to himself, placing the underwear he bought at her bedside table before leaving for the _Crest_.

–

A few months later, on a particularly lonely night, he looked up her chain code to see where she had been stationed.

_MISSING IN ACTION; BATTLE OF YAVIN._

He quickly shut down the datapad and busied himself with locating his next quarry.

_**present.** _

Djarin watched his come slide down the drain, swirling with the water of the shower. His forehead pressed against the cool tile of the fresher wall. The high of his orgasm was beginning to subside, and soon he felt his body begin to ache again, his shoulders starting to sag, hunger starting to settle in the pit of his stomach.

He dried himself off with a clean rag and dressed himself in short order, putting his armor on piece by piece. Ambling back to the cockpit, he wondered if he had enough time before locating his next bounty to pick up a hot meal to take back to his ship.

–

“Would you like a table?” The young woman asked him, wiping greasy fingers on her apron. Her hair was tied back in a bun, but errant strands of hair still stuck to her forehead, refusing to be tamed. She wrapped his order of steamed dumplings in a roll of brown paper and tied it closed with twine.

“No,” he said, taking the meal and stuffing it under his arm. “Thank you for the food.” He gave her twice the amount of credits she asked. Flustered, she tried to give it back to him. He slid them back to her on the counter, insistent.

Djarin heard footsteps approach. His hand hovered by the holster of his blaster until the source of the sound became evident: a small child emerged from behind the counter and quickly wrapped her arms around Djarin’s leg.

“Sorry! My daughter’s much too friendly,” she explained, words coming out in a rush. “She doesn’t know better.” She hurried over, about to extricate her child from Djarin’s leg, but he motioned a hand up to stop her.

“It’s alright,” he said with a chuckle.

The girl looked up at him curiously. She had wild brown locks of hair that tumbled down below her ears, wild like her mother’s. He reached out and mussed it gently, the girl giggling with joy.

The woman smiled at him. “You must have a little one yourself,” she said warmly.

A lump in Djarin’s throat formed against his will. He swallowed it down. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

“You will one day,” she said.

He couldn’t tell her it wasn’t possible for him. Not Din Djarin, a man of forty and not getting any younger. A ruthless bounty hunter, a follower of his code and Creed and little else.

He would never be a father.

_**five years later.** _

In the cockpit of the _R_ _azor_ _C_ _rest_ , the child suckled on the metal _kyr'bes_ of the ancient Mythosaur. Better that than his ship, Djarin figured.

The child cooed and reached out to Djarin, tiny arms asking to be picked up. He took the child and sat him in the crook of his arm, looking down at him with quiet fondness. His big green ears twitched as he gurgled happily, eyes wide with wonder.

_You are as its father_ , the Armorer had told him with unwavering certainty.

Djarin took a trembling breath.

“ _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad_ ,” he said, voice rasping, the effect amplified by his helmet.

The child looked up at him and cooed softly. Djarin took one of his tiny green hands with a gloved finger.

“That’s right, kid. You’re—” his breath hitched, “my son.

And dad’s not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever just want to write filthy Mando porn and end up with an angsty introspective fic about mandalorian customs regarding sex, marriage, and family, with some smut thrown in the middle? oop
> 
> All the Mando’a in this is actual Mando’a, sourced from Wookiepedia and mandoa.org!
> 
> echoy'la - searching, mourning, lost
> 
> Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde - "We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors” – Mandalorian marriage vow
> 
> Verd’goten – Mandalorian coming of age ceremony, literally “birth of warrior”
> 
> Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad - "I know your name as my child"; Mandalorian adoption vow
> 
> kyr'bes – skull, esp. of a mythosaur


End file.
